


Avengers' Tower, 1620

by Mythdefied



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bisexual Tony Stark, F/M, Omega Tony Stark, Other, all omegas are bisexual, and horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythdefied/pseuds/Mythdefied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony doesn't have <i>heats</i> per se, but he's still an omega, which means his sex drive is on a slow burn 24/7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avengers' Tower, 1620

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have something that amounts to a novella I wrote on world building for my own version of a/b/o biology, history, society, politics, etc.. I'd planned an epic, multi-chaptered fic around it, but instead I keep using it for these little one-off short fics. Scenes that can't work from other things I'm writing, but work well enough on their own. This is the first that I like well enough to post.

So, Tony doesn't have _heats_ per se, at least not since he had all the relevant internal plumbing removed more than twenty years back. But he's still an omega, which means his sex drive is on a slow burn 24/7 regardless, and there's these ridiculous sudo-heats where his body hasn't _quite_ got the message that there's no reason to get even _more_ hot and bothered because there's literally no point. At least he's not a keening, dripping mess of hormones, begging for the nearest alpha, like one of those poor unspayed, unsnipped omegas, but it's still enough to make him squirm, fuck with his concentration.

Which is why he finds himself motherfucking _slinking_ his way onto the Avengers' common floor, moving in ways he hasn't since college because, like then, he knows there's a room full of alphas lounging around, smelling available. 

Sometimes this minor hormonal surge makes him aggressive, makes him desperate to fuck someone, ride them hard, until they're both exhausted and stink of satisfaction. But right now it’s hitting him the other way, making him loose and pliant, submissive, making him want to be held down, teeth gripping the back of his neck, someone rutting into him over and over like there's actually a chance of breeding him. It's a hormonal thing, hell, a psychological one too, and he knows it, and while normally he'd scoff and roll his eyes at fucking _instincts_ , right now he's too busy pouring himself into a chair, spreading his legs wide in blatant invitation, to care about anything else.

Tony knows how he looks. Tight black tank over hard muscle, bare arms starting to gleam with rising heat-sweat, even tighter jeans framing how hard he is, the way he's spread out showing off the dampness gradually spreading over his inner seam. He knows how he _smells_ , not the insanity of a full-blown heat, more like the seep of drugged air, slowly filling the room with _want_ and _available_ and _take me_. 

If it were any other time (and even as hormonal as he is right now, he still makes a mental note to have JARVIS loop this, set it to some annoying pop tune, and turn it into SHIELD's screen saver for a month), he'd be amused by the way all his teammates absolutely _freeze_ at the same time. One second they're talking, joking, gaming, reading, the next there's nothing but a group of utterly still alphas and absolute silence, broken a moment later only by the pathetic sound of Mario and Luigi dying on-screen. 

Like something scripted, six heads turns, all eyes focusing on him; it's akin to a herd of deer facing an oncoming eighteen wheeler. A group of badass alphas acting like the lone, vulnerable little omega is hunting _them_ ; fuck SHIELD, he's putting this on Youtube. 

Languidly, every movement more fluid than he could normally pull off, Tony slides a leg up, hooks it over the armrest, opening himself fully. If not for the jeans, they'd see everything. And really, these jeans are so old, so thin; he slides a hand to the inside of his thigh, runs a manicured thumbnail slowly up the fraying, wet material. He tilts his head back, baring his throat; drops his gaze, half-lidded, looking out through thick eyelashes. 

"So...," he breathes out, voice close to a moan. Aaand that's as far as he gets. 

Abruptly everyone's moving and babbling and Thor's rushing out to the balcony. 

"I must see my Lady Jane now!" his voice booms out, and he actually jumps off the balcony _before_ Mjölnir reaches him. 

"Headingtothefarmbye!" From sprawled on the floor to up in the ceiling in less than a blink of an eye, and Clint hasn't made a jump like _that_ since Natasha put a honey badger in his bedroom during the last prank war. 

"Whoa, lookit the time!" Rhodey throws his controller aside and stands in the same motion, barely missing being whacked in the head by Clint's fast-moving booted feet. "Gotta head back to base." 

He _runs_ to where the War Machine armor stands, almost colliding with Thor before shoving himself into the armor. He's flying off before it finishes closing around him. 

"Need to go see how Bucky's settling into the SHIELD apartment." Steve either doesn't notice or doesn't care that his book goes tumbling to the floor as he leaps up, dodges both Thor and Rhodey, only to trip over Bruce. But even stumbling he makes it to the elevator in under two seconds. 

Bruce doesn't actually say anything; his armchair is the closest to Tony and he makes an alarmed noise and goes up _over_ the back of the chair. He ends up tumbling onto the floor with a grunt, then a more pained one as Steve's foot connects with his arm. 

"Something I have to do, important-ish," Bruce babbles as he scrambles to his feet. "Sorry!" He actually catches up with Steve before the elevator door shuts. 

And Tony gets it. No, he really _does_. Most of them have their own lives and real packs outside of the Avengers, and the only reason the Avengers as a group, this sudo-pack of theirs, works is because Tony doesn't have real heats. And it's not like he doesn't normally have Pepper, the alpha of his own two person pack, to take care of him. 

Except she's out of town on business and these fucking hormones came out of _nowhere_ and logic doesn't hold up worth a damn against omega instincts when it hits him like this. He _needs_ , and all the alphas are abandoning him. He wants to whine in desperation and frustration (wants to roll his eyes and smack some sense into himself, because, seriously?), because his own hands won't be anywhere _near_ enough. And he's empty, wanting, craving. And-and- 

And Natasha is still sitting there at the end of the nearest couch, expression calm, her only movement to lean back, rest a hand casually on the couch arm. Her body language says "cool and in charge," and her scent.... 

Tony's eyebrows raise in surprise. That's _definitely_ a welcoming, come-hither smell, all musky and female and strong alpha, and not at all fertile (which is what he prefers in a female mate, so, even more of a turn-on). Natasha's usually cold blue eyes are eclipsed by dark pupils, signaling her intense interest; her gaze is focused on his, staring without blinking, demanding submission. Her nostrils flare; a sharp nail drags against the grain of the fabric. Her tongue peeks out to wet her bottom lip. 

Her smile is predatory. "I have strap-ons." 

Tony grins back. "Sold." 


End file.
